


bring you back to where I know you (I just want you to let you let me hold you)

by smithens



Series: this sudden burst of sunlight [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Anal Fingering, Depression, Epistolary, Established Relationship, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Teasing, Tender Sex, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Melancholy, like all things, always comes to an end.Sometimes it has help.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: this sudden burst of sunlight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949431
Comments: 10
Kudos: 90





	bring you back to where I know you (I just want you to let you let me hold you)

**Author's Note:**

> **content notes:** explicit sex, personal hygiene, schmoop, internal reflections on thoughts of suicide.
>
>> Don't let this line go slack  
> I want to bring you back to where I know you  
> Oh Wait  
> Don't give up on us yet  
> I just want you to let you let me hold you
>> 
>> Oh wait, wait, wait my love  
> Just one more thought  
> Wait, wait, wait my love  
> I haven't got time in my life  
> To watch you drift away  
> But I've all kinds of time  
> All kinds of time if you'll stay
> 
> — ["Transcontinental, 1:30am" by Vienna Teng](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrUXDd2A1yE)
> 
> the narrative picks up right where [November 1933 in strange how I fit into you (there's a distance erased with the greatest of ease)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708473) left off.

**Letter, from York, to Downton**

_13/8/32_

_My Thomas,_

_My dearest one. You're troubling me again, Love. I know you tend to get glum this time of year, and that I can't do much at all about it, but I want you to know that I am here for you—and I could be there for you, too, if you so chose. You are but five bus stops away from me now and about an hour's worth of time on the road. I could head to Downton any time I liked to gather you up in my arms and kiss you senseless but the last thing you need is an embarrassing display from your lover, I'm sure._

_But if only we could!_

_Nevertheless I mean what I say wholeheartedly. I'll be there at the drop of a hat. You offered to do a similar thing last year and I'm sorry I never took it as the gift it was, but I'd like to amend that now._

_I care for you, I miss you, I love you! you hold my heart in your hands, sweetheart. The next occasion we're blessed with time together I intend to smother you in kisses ( & Kisses too) and shower you with pet names, a matter in which you get no say. Besides the obvious. Naturally you can tell me no thanks, but I won't allow a running commentary on what you do and don't deserve. You deserve the world and I'd serve it up for you on a silver platter if I could, state livery & bells on._

_Keep writing. I can tell it makes you feel better, and you always have my ear (and my eye)._

_Your darling,_

_Dickie XXXXX_

*

**Letter, from Downton, to York**

_Aug 22, 1932_

_My most darling,_

_Sorry for taking so long, but it's passed. Consider yourself successful because your letter cheered me up more than I can say. What I can say though is, I love you. You know it's harder for me than it used to be to let those words come out of my mouth but somehow it's not so difficult as that if I put them to paper. I really do love you more than anybody. I want to spend the rest of my (very long, or as long as it can be til something happens I haven't got control over, I promise) life by your side._

_When I next see you I shall be gracious and allow you to call me your silly boy and your dear and your sweetheart and your beloved and your honey and your treasure and your sunshine and your earthshine and your snowdrop and your moonflower and whatever other Victorian storybook rubbish you manage to come up with between now and then. Do you write them all down when you think of them? Carry around a notebook all for the love of me? You do flatter me. But I don't mind as much as I like to pretend, do I? You know the answer to that one._

_So, yes, the next time we are together I will let you call me names… and I will let you gather me in your arms and kiss me. I want you to kiss me, my darling. I want to feel your lips on mine and be in your arms so of course I will let you. Where shall I? My lips like I said. My cheeks. My jaw. The back of my neck, and just below my neck, I'm sure, where you can leave traces under the collar where nobody but you or I can see, as you like it. And then I'll be nice and let you go even lower, so long as you ask me nicely…_

_…_

_Thank you. For all of it._

_Your lover,_

_X._

_P.S. Don't come here, we don't need people at the big house talking, but I can come up with an excuse to go into Thirsk or some place next Sunday. Telephone about that would you? I want to see you. And we can now, almost whenever we like. It's paradise compared to what it was before._

_P.P.S. I said anything but you know the exception. There's a reason you get the whole dictionary (lucky you I'm not turning that one into a pun). It's so you don't resort to calling me Tommy or something. Once was enough "I can assure you"._

_P.P.S. I am indulging in the post scripts this evening, for your sake. Just this last one: XXXXXXX._

* * *

**York, November 1933**

"Shall we talk about the elephant in the room?"

 _Clip_. Another nail-end falls into the rubbish bin. In the last month (and then some) Richard has done everything from dressing him to shaving him to giving him baths; somehow this is the strangest. Nobody ever talks about this part of valeting, do they?

Richard rubs his thumb along the rough edge of his hand, looking up at him with gentle eyes. "Do you _want_ to talk about it?" he asks. He always rephrases himself when Thomas doesn't answer the first time. Sometimes he's just thinking; that's all. He does have _ears._

"Right now I mostly want you to bugger me."

"Mercy me," Richard says, sarcastic. If he weren't also smiling like that Thomas would shrink into himself and never come out again; that's how he feels. Good but like he could slip again at any moment.

"Or something else," he adds lamely. "Could also just…"

Richard shakes his head. He trims the nail of his left ring finger, first at the front and then at the sides, then blows over his fingertips, squeezes his hand. Having somebody else do this is odd. _I don't even use this hand for that,_ Thomas had said a few minutes ago, _can't it wait?_

 _Rather get two birds with one stone,_ Richard had replied, with a shrug that almost seemed like it was meant to be meaningful, raising his eyebrows at him as if to say _why are you complaining about this, of all things._

Because he would like to have sex sooner rather than later, is why.

"I'm yours for the evening," Richard says. Lightly. His eyes are fixed at his hand. "I'll do whatever you'd like."

"That's what I'd like."

"Then it's settled." He does his small finger next, then brings out the file again. Swipe, swipe. All one direction. He puts so much care into this, so much attention to detail. Sometimes Thomas wishes he did it for other things, instead—the things that haven't got anything to do with the job he did for years, for example. "But we'll talk, at some point, won't we?"

Or with _talking._ They don't need to stage a production about every little thing, in Thomas's opinion.

"I suppose we will," he says.

"Right," says Richard. "I'd like to, Thomas."

"So talk, then, I'm not stopping you."

For all he complains about _Richard_ contradicting himself…

He doesn't say anything immediately. He is too busy shaping Thomas's nails. What an odd notion. This might be one of the more intimate things they've ever done.

If you leave out half of the things with pricks involved, at least.

"You're certain you want this?"

"What'd I just say?"

"Been a while is all."

More than two months, by now.

Thomas should feel guilty about it; mostly he feels apathetic.

Apathetic and very unsatisfied.

"I want it," he says, stubborn.

Richard nods. "You know I worry about you."

Swipe, swipe, swipe. He sets the file down, then holds Thomas's hand by his knuckles and kisses the tips of his fingers.

"Yeah," Thomas says, feeling hollow. He does know, and it's the last thing he wants. The absolute very last thing. No need to be a burden if he doesn't have to be, and he has been enough already. "Look, I don't especially care to have this conversation right now, so unless…"

Another kiss to his hand. "I know."

"If you don't want to… if you don't _want_ me," Thomas tries, but the words catch in his throat. He was happy not even half an hour ago, or he almost was at least; why's he getting choked up _now?_

"There is nothing on this green earth I want more than you, Thomas," Richard says.

Romantic bastard. He lives on turns of phrase and clichés and it isn't nearly as stupid as Thomas might find it from anybody else because words like that sound right coming out of his mouth. Thomas leans down to go in for a kiss; he misses and knocks their noses together by accident.

Laughing can solve a lot of problems.

In bed Thomas lies on his back with one knee to the side and flat up by his elbow; the other is up, his heel touching his thigh. Nowhere to hide; no way to be shy. Richard sits at his side, looking down at him with a smile on his face, stroking his wrist as he works himself open with oiled up fingers. ( _Why are we doing this the old fashioned way, exactly?_ he'd asked. Richard had handed him the vial with raised eyebrows and said, _seemed like it might be tempting fate to replenish the supplies, you being as you were._ So they're being 19th century aristocrats for the night, apparently.)

"Missed seeing you like this," he says.

"Missed _being_ like this," Thomas replies. And he has, fuck, he has missed this, missed sharing their bed for this, missed that look of want in Richard's face (pupils wide in his eyes and his cheeks flushed, focused, breathtaken) and the fluttering of his hands, so eager to touch him. All he's wanted for weeks is to be able to feel this way again. To be able to give him what he wants and to get something out of it, himself. He's so sorry, now, for going cold, so sorry, but he couldn't have managed and he'd known it and it would've been disastrous at best if he'd tried. The last thing he wants is to disappoint him.

Richard drums his fingertips upon his knuckles in a rhythm and lays his palm flat on the back of his hand. He could just touch Thomas's cock if he wanted, he really could, he's close enough, but they both know he won't; Thomas tries to _breathe_ he's felt nothing for so long and now the mere thought of moving forward makes him feel like he'll lose himself but he needs to be here for Richard; this is for _both_ of them. Both of them.

"Easy, sweetheart," Richard says gently. That grin and that bloody _nickname_ when put together is more than he can handle; so is all that love in his eyes. He lets go of him. Thomas stares at his hand as he reaches again for the vial, his head weighty. "Be kind to yourself, Thomas."

Thomas nods.

He closes his eyes. Anticipation builds, and rightly so. When Richard replaces his hand it's coated in even more oil than Thomas's is. He pushes his fingertips between Thomas's knuckles, just forceful enough to stir and nearly where they need to be; Thomas has two inside already.

This is why not three.

"One?"

"Yeah," Thomas says, drawing out, and Richard's hand is a gentle but not cumbersome weight. He leaves them inside only up to the first knuckle, and the sudden emptiness makes him almost writhe. It's not how it feels so much as it is the _thought,_ the thought that... "Please."

 _Keep breathing,_ Thomas tells himself; he's ready but it _has_ been a while, and –

When Richard's finger slips past and between his own he gasps, "oh," instinctively, eyes still shut; once he's _inside_ Thomas presses in again, too. His arm is at an odd angle and so are both his legs by now but it doesn't matter when he can _feel these things,_ feel the palm of Richard's hand flush against his knuckles and the movement of his wrist as he angles deeper, feel him on the inside, too, _both_ of them, working together to fill him up. To make him feel good. After another breath as deep into his belly as he can get he opens his eyes and shifts _down,_ and Richard's lips are parted just slightly as he looks at him, back and forth from his face to between his legs. Watching him. In awe.

They move inside of him in unison, slow how he likes, _more_ slow than he likes, even, but it's what he needs right now. It's been a while and he would like to make this last for as long as he can.

"I'll never tire of you," Richard says quietly.

"Never say – "

"Never, Thomas," and he can't find it in himself to protest. Richard is rocking his hand against his, knuckling the walls inside of him, inching deeper than he can go, himself; Thomas twists his torso in an attempt to keep up, but the problem with doing this on his own never changes—he wants it and badly, but every sensation overwhelms him, every hint of what is to come makes him tremble, and he can't just keep at it without interrupting himself, without that sense of _too much_ and yet knowing he needs more, knowing this won't do the job on its own. Frustrating.

Richard does not have this problem.

Richard can sit beside him as he is doing now and take as much time (and use as much care) as he likes, and after years together he's learned when to keep going and when to stop, doesn't just pause every time Thomas has to catch his breath the way he has to on his own.

So though he stays inside, unmoving, Thomas lies back and keeps time with him, presses up when Richard goes in and back down when he pulls out, keeping his hand between his legs. Though he isn't ready yet to move alongside him he can pull up against himself, increasing the pressure, making more _room,_ he shudders; Richard says, "shall I take that as a hint?"

_Already?_

Thomas shakes his head and maybe too quickly, but he can't keep his mouth shut over this: "no," he says, "not yet," and Richard tilts his head to one side and stills.

Doesn't _stop,_ he's still there, but he's not moving. Thomas tries to breathe.

"Meant for more of this," he replies, drawing his finger up Thomas's, his knuckle bending, and –

"Oh," _idiot,_ "that's all right, then."

Richard laughs (he's so _happy_ , he must've felt so deprived) and wastes no time in adding another, rubbing up against Thomas's two fingers as he does, grinning; Thomas moans without even thinking twice.

With their hands stacked how they are four is just right, not too much, not too little. For now. Thomas can't quite force himself to match at the right rhythm but it's almost better that way— _always_ deep, always full, because when he draws back Richard is going in, slow like he hasn't any cares in the world, and wide when they meet in the middle, and that's how his prick is going to feel inside of him. Just like it.

Thomas whimpers, his shoulders twisting, his mouth watering.

He can't prevent himself from picking up speed, starting to thrust in and out of himself, seeking, but Richard only lets him go fast for a moment before clamping his hand down on Thomas's own, still.

His cock, untouched on his belly, already dripping onto his skin, is throbbing.

"Steady," Richard says. Thomas has heavy eyelids but he manages to look and finds him smirking. "This isn't a footrace."

"Maybe it should be," Thomas breathes.

"I don't think you mean that."

"Yeah, well – "

"D'you want me to pick up the pace?" Richard interrupts, eyebrows lifted. "I'll do so if you ask."

Thomas looks away; he mumbles, "no."

"As I thought," he says, voice low and mischievous, and Thomas closes his eyes again. "Slower, even?"

Thomas bites his lip.

He nods.

"I don't want to torture you."

"You won't be."

So Richard starts moving again, putting pressure on his hand; "follow my lead."

Eventually Thomas finds it in himself to start moving again, careful to keep his hand flush with Richard's, careful not to outdo him. It's… tempting. To go for it regardless. But he won't, if he can help it, because he hasn't _got to,_ because it is all right for him to simply lie down here and let Richard take charge.

Happens rarely, he doesn't like it, usually, gets nervous when he can't know if Richard's enjoying himself or not, but… well, he's made it clear he doesn't mind if it's not about him for the night, hasn't he?

And Thomas will make it up for him soon enough. When they're ready. Richard always does like to give.

In every sense, really.

At the moment he's still left him untouched, fingers drawing in and out, and even though he hasn't _gone there_ yet he's… he's teasing like he will, as he does, even how he is he likes to draw things out; he likes to take his time and make sure he's comfortable and that he's all right and bloody hell is he all right now, he might even say so but then perhaps he hasn't got to when he can show it with his body, with the press of his hips and the force in his own wrist; maybe he _will_ let Thomas lead –

"Is this going to go as we planned?" Richard asks lightly. He curls his fingers; under them Thomas does the same, moving as one inside of him. If he died right now he'd be satisfied. Richard would hate that he just had that thought but he did. "You seem about ready to finish."

"Maybe I am," Thomas says. His voice is hoarse. He can't help but roll his hips toward their joined hands.

They're so close, if he'd just move a little more…

"You'll be quick this evening, I suppose?"

"Yeah, well, it has been weeks."

His _voice_ is _hoarse_ —yeah, more like he doesn't have one anymore; all he can do is whisper. Why are they talking when all he wants is right here?

Richard stills. "You haven't taken care of yourself for weeks."

God. What does it bloody matter when they're in bed together now.

He almost says, _been too busy wanting to off myself._ Seeing as that would probably make Richard very upset at best he chooses not to. What he does choose is to look away from him and pout. He's still not moving. _Either pull out or put out,_ Thomas wants to snap, but that's about as wise an idea as the one that came before it. "When was I meant to do that," he says instead.

Richard only started leaving him alone again a fucking week ago.

"Didn't want to, besides," he adds.

"Do you want to now?"

Sometimes Thomas thinks that Richard will make him go mad.

"No, I just fancied you sticking your hand in me for no reason."

"Right," says Richard, a turn in his lips. It's his own fault if he's displeased. Who brings something like that up in the middle of something like this?

"Why the fuck would I be doing this if I didn't?"

"But you didn't need to keep any of this from me, Thomas, you might've said something – "

"Yeah, Dick, I don't need a lecture when you've got your fingers up my arse – "

"I wish you'd shared it," he interrupts, soft now, reaching up with his free hand to caress the side of his face. "That's all."

"Yeah, well – "

"That's all, love," firm.

Well, the sweet talk will do it.

There'll be time for less-sweet talk some other day, but for _now…_ Thomas swallows. Nods.

"Do you want more than our hands?"

This time he shakes his head.

Even with the outburst he's still so hard he can barely think, but he's not ready to go further, not now; he can't. Right now he just needs –

"Another time, then," says Richard, with a sudden stroke at the crease of his groin and thigh, starting there and moving up his abdomen, maintaining contact with his skin all the while blimey he's getting back into it fast isn't he his hand is slipping under his cock brushing him with the backs of his fingers and moving in little circles against the hair below his navel and, "come on, love," bringing out his other hand only to go back in and bend his fingers around Thomas's knuckles, _this_ is enough this is wonderful

" _Richard_ ," says Thomas suddenly, in an unattractive croaking voice; he adds, breathy, his mouth dry, "Dick," and then, "my darling," and then " _fuck,_ God," when he flips his hand over and cradles his cock. He's still pushing in and out of him with two fingers but Thomas isn't; Thomas is frozen in place.

Not frozen.

On fire.

Thomas lets his head fall back onto the mattress, his neck taught, and draws his heels nearer to his thighs. He bends and straightens at his wrist, but Richard is ahead of him, picking up speed, interlacing their fingers _inside of him,_ pressing and prodding. He can feel him curling his fingers past his own right up until the moment he's close to touching and then quitting, building up the anticipation bit by bit, just waiting for him to give in.

"Come on, Thomas," Richard murmurs, coaxing.

 _Come off you mean_ he could tease but he really can't, is the thing, he doesn't know if he can speak anymore he wants it so badly. Slowly, slowly, slowly Thomas draws out his fingers, feeling the change of size and pressure—odd, knowing he's not there anymore but something still is, even if the something is Richard's lovely fucking hand.

"You can handle yourself," adds Richard. Even with his eyes shut it's obvious he's smiling. Thomas imagines it. That sight is in his head forever now, even if it's harder to find when he most needs it—but he is having no trouble at the moment.

"Do I need your permission," he mumbles, but he's already doing it, wrapping his oiled fingers around his cock and pulling off; Richard keeps his other hand where it is, moving against the growth of his hair in a way that makes a shiver rush down his spine.

He keeps the first hand in place, too, only Thomas can now feel him drawing almost all the way out, and –

"If you'd like."

Cheek.

"MbeIdo."

No more talking for him, though. Not now, when Richard is broadening his fingers, opening him at his entrance—just for one brief moment before releasing, to go back in with just one. His middle finger, Thomas can feel, he can feel his other knuckles between his cheeks. Just one means –

Richard does it, crooking his finger, like he's calling him forward, calling him to him.

Thomas feels his whole body jerk and his legs kick and his head rush before he feels anything pleasurable, his nerves reacting before the rest of him, pure instinct, pure reflex. He's not full anymore and he doesn't like that necessarily but _this,_ this is making up for it this is madness is what it is, Richard's hand still but the pad of his finger moving in tiny little circles against his prostate over and over, "come on, there you are," Thomas is gasping his voice feels like it's being wrenched out of his chest he doesn't recognise the sounds he's making _oh_ he doesn't even have his hand on himself anymore he's too busy grinding up against Richard's finger right in place where it needs to be right where he wants it, his _entire body pulses_ his entire body _wants it_ , "almost there, Thomas, love, you're close, dear," _oh_ he knows him so well doesn't he he knows every sign every symbol every piece of him inside and out but especially inside _fuck_ he's rubbing him just the way he needs Thomas wonders if he's thought of this if he's thought of him when he's gotten himself off in secret thinking about making him feel this way because it can't be anything else can it not when he's pressing up against him like it's the most important job in the world the only thing he wants to be doing, doing what he's meant for, Thomas's heels are off the mattress and he holds his elbows around his knees stretching his legs and making space and he bites his lip and _oh_ Richard's there he's just there inside him "please, please please please,"

"More or the same?"

"More more more," Thomas gasps, the words a voiceless slurry out of his mouth, "there, that's, oh, oh," and Richard presses his hand further near to him and that finger further in and he _massages_ steady at the same speed but pushing God he wants more than this

"Good, Thomas," Richard says, "being so good for me, dear, here we are, now, sweetheart, come on..."

_Being good_

"Go on," he continues, "I'm right here." Another faint stroke to the top of his prick but this time he _he_ "I'm right here, Thomas, you can let go, now."

Thomas's mouth says something like "nguh," on the second try he manages, "need-y-t," it's gibberish but Richard figures it out quick—

 _There that's what he wanted_ he's holding his cock properly now his palm is smooth around him and he quickens his pace still with that other finger pressing unceasing against his

He comes in _waves_ , a ripple through his body and a flood in his head, and Richard works him through it, thumb at the head of his prick rubbing there, too, at the spots where he's most sensitive, and

He keeps _going_ he's still going just how he needs, keeps him rooted as he spends himself all over his own chest and on Richard's hand, seeing it through, fuck he loves him so much; Thomas loses all sense, sight and sound, and

Not abruptly, not all at once, it ends.

He finishes.

Sweet relief.

Bloody hell.

As he settles down Richard lets go and slips out of him, but he's in no hurry to finish himself off: he presses kisses to the subtle curve of his waist, to the front of his thigh, as far back on his hip as he can get. Thomas reaches for him blindly. He gets lucky, meets his shoulder, and despite the mess he's just made of himself Richard obliges him when he tugs, laying flat upon him, head on his collar.

"Thank you," Thomas says against the crown of his head. "Fuck, I needed that."

After an orgasm he evidently has no sense of what's worth saying and what's not.

"Dare I agree with you?"

"'S the truth."

Richard laughs.

He's bound to be getting uncomfortably sticky, lying where he is. Thomas can't exactly feel any part of his body yet but he'll _probably_ regret staying, too, the only thing is he can't end this without returning the favour. Richard doesn't deserve to miss out just because he can't control himself.

"I love you, Thomas," he says, even so. "I adore you."

"Yeah."

"Grateful for you."

"You, too," still into his hair, the lavender and orange blossom of Brilliantine (he still wears it but not near as much as he used to, not so much the scent lingers night and day for a week) and the sweat and smell of _him_ overwhelming his nose. "Love you too."

"Love of my life."

"Mmn."

"My moonrise."

Thomas scoffs.

"Silly boy."

"Fuck off," says Thomas, but he can't stop smiling.

"You'd never forgive me," says Richard, with a kiss to his neck. Down at his leg his prick is still hard (or almost is, at any rate).

Thomas asks, "what d'you want?"

Another kiss. Thomas strokes his fingers down along his spine, from the base of his neck to between his shoulder blades, following the curve until he is past his waist and the small of his back… Richard laughs.

"I'll take suggestions."

"Will you?"

"Yeah."

Warm, hazy and very satiated, Thomas cannot help but chuckle to himself. "Well, I wouldn't want to have gotten your hopes up for nothing," he murmurs. He's sleepy, to tell the truth. "Hand me that, would you?"

Meaning the fucking olive oil.

Richard sits up and raises his eyebrows; underneath him Thomas lets his eyes wander. He's beautiful when he's hard and wanting—and other times, he's beautiful always, really. That cross between confusion and whatever-it-is, skepticism or superiority maybe, though, that's one of the more charming things his face can do. But he hands the jar over without protest.

Thomas takes some between the flats of his fingers, feels it run through them. More liquid than he's used to. Why is he thinking about this now, God, Richard's _waiting_ on him; he parts his thighs and lays his hands flat at each before he starts rubbing.

"Oh," Richard says, staring at him.

"You want it?" Thomas asks. He can't resist teasing, but his head's too hazy to say anything meaningful. Instead he smirks at him (or at least tries) and tugs his legs open.

"You certain?"

"Have me any way you like," Thomas tells him, remembering how this started, "but this one's closest to what I promised."

" _Did_ you promise?"

Thomas shrugs, lazy. "To myself," he says. Richard's sigh is a cross between irritation and… something nicer than that. Something loving. "But you get to choose."

"I choose what you choose."

"Cheat," Thomas says, raising his eyebrows. Richard laughs. "Well, c'mere, then…"

He lets Richard oil himself up (and it's not actually as tempting to touch now that he's gotten over the rush), but soon enough he's at his back, one arm wrapped around his chest, fingers in the hair at his sternum, and the other higher up on the pillow at his head.

"Little lower," Thomas tells him, shifting his top leg forward, and Richard complies. "Thank you."

He's teasing, a little.

Richard kisses the center of his back, moving his fingers in circles over his chest. "Ready?"

" _You_ certainly are…"

He takes that as a _yes,_ as he very well should, and then he's slipping between Thomas's legs, nearer to his knees than his groin. Thomas manages to lay his hand on his at his chest without elbowing him in the face. Good start.

Slowly and silently Richard begins to move, breath hot against his shoulder and palm firm on his chest, and then he starts kissing him, his neck, shoulders and spine, everywhere he can get to; Thomas unlinks their fingers—he can reach behind himself just far enough down to lay one hand upon his hip as he thrusts between his thighs, his enthusiasm increasing at every moment.

"God, you needed this as bad as I did, didn't you," Thomas murmurs, stroking the curve of his backside, their arms brushing against each other. "Not the same as your hand, is it."

"No," Richard says, strained, "not nearly."

"Not as good?"

"No, oh, Thomas;" burying his head into his neck, thrusting between his thighs with small, enthusiastic movements. He could almost shiver only he feels warm, warm and calm, content to just be here and let him have all he likes. "Oh, Thomas."

"Take all you need, then," he says, letting his hand fall towards the inside of his thigh and squeezing, "take your time."

Then, he never can draw things out when he's both the one wanting and the one responsible...

But Thomas likes to see him try.

Or hear him, in this case.

"You know I won't."

"Yeah, I know you won't..."

Richard moans. His knee is jutting against Thomas's calf and as he moves, still holding Thomas firm against his chest, he rocks both of them back and forth—so needy. If he didn't feel so much like he was floating on top of the world Thomas would probably be feeling guilty that he's gone so long without it…

Well, he is. But he wouldn't take kindly to that and for now it doesn't matter, because _for now_ he has him, and he doesn't have to go it alone (and Thomas knows he has been, lately, there've been close calls and besides that he is very familiar with how he is after a shag; more than once he's come home in the night to find Richard saccharine and soppy and snuggly as he crawls into bed beside him) because _Thomas is here for him and he always fucking will be,_ "there," he says, "close, aren't you?"

His answer is a kiss to his shoulderblade that rapidly turns into a bite. Though Thomas flinches it is without a doubt something he's missed feeling over the last two months, so he lets himself sigh and adjusts his legs, adds something new to show his appreciation.

"Almost," mumbles Richard against his back, "almost there, love."

"Just like usual," Thomas teases. Somehow Richard manages to laugh and gasp at the same time.

The very same instant Thomas starts, awkwardly, what with the angle, to move his hand between his legs from the back, he's coming, holding him tightly, hand clenched into a fist braced up against him now; pushing back and forth. Thomas moves with him as one.

It's always best when they can work together, the way they have done tonight.

"There," says Thomas softly, "for me, darling."

There is no reply but for a whimper, because Richard is still clinging to him for dear life, but he doesn't need to hear him speak to know what he's thinking and how he's feeling.

It doesn't take him as long as it did Thomas, though, and soon enough he is slipping out from between his (now unfortunately messy) legs and sighing with satisfaction.

This time he doesn't talk.

No need to, really, and now that they've both gone soft (and _soft_ ) Thomas wants to make the best of it as he can.

He rolls over. Richard's eyes are closed but he must sense it, because he reaches out to set his hand upon his face, and then the side of his head.

"Good?"

"Just splendid," Richard says, "just perfect, thanks." Awed: "I love you." He won't stop stroking his hair. God, six years and he's still as sentimental as their first night together. Even more than then, actually. "And I love your _body_ , Thomas, all of it."

 _All of it_ means plenty of places Thomas is certain he himself would not be especially attracted to on anybody else, his hand and his wrists, the hip, the places where he used to be smooth and firm but now is softer than he likes.

Thomas would protest, but by now he can't.

"Love every bit of you."

His eyes flutter open.

His smile is a sight for sore eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it the first time – "

"This," Richard interrupts, adjusting (knocking their legs together in the process) and then following up the words with a kiss to his neck, "and this," a stroke along his hip— _that_ hip—"and this," fingers scrunching his hair.

"Taking a leaf out of my book?" Thomas says, pushing himself out of his arms to look him in the face again.

"I may be."

"Haven't known you to be so unoriginal," he tells him, mock serious, "you could get in trouble, you know."

"For what?"

"For _stealing._ "

Richard stares at him.

"I'm not giving you your heart back, if that's what you're asking for."

Thomas stares back.

 _I love you,_ he thinks again. When Richard raises his eyebrows he has to bite his lip and lower his eyes, certain that he's blushing. _Thomas Barrow, débutante._

"Right," says Richard after a moment, blithe, breaking out into a smile, (he did manage to hold the serious face this time) "let's wash, dearest, shall we?" and without another word he is tugging Thomas up and out of bed, beaming.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com)


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